He shuffled off, leisurely at first, but with each step gradually quickening his pace. She must take me for a mental case, he thought. Colorful wall paintings ran the length of the deck. He passed through a door marked OFF LIMITS and headed down a long, deserted corridor, flooded with a bright electric glare. A row of numbered doors. He kept going, relying more on his sense of hearing. Some stairs brought him out on a landing, face-to-face with a metal door.

STELLAR PERSONNEL ONLY read the sign. Wow, nothing like having fancy names!

No doorknob—by special key only. Which key he lacked. He rubbed his nose in a moment of concentration.

Tap… tap… tatatap… tap… tap…

He waited. The door opened slightly, and a surly, ruddy-complexioned face showed in the crack.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m from Patrol.”

The door opened wide enough to admit him, and he entered what looked to be an auxiliary control room: double row of steering controls, video screens lining the opposite wall, facing which were several vacant chairs. A small, squat-looking unit was monitoring the pulsating dials. Standing on a narrow side table by the wall were some half-empty cups and saucers. The air was redolent of freshly brewed coffee, and of something that smelled vaguely like heated plastic laced with a whiff of ozone. Another door stood slightly ajar, emitting the purring drone of a transformer.

“An SOS?” he inquired of the man who had let him in. Stocky, with a slight swelling on one side of his face: a toothache kind of swelling; headset band creasing the hair; gray, partially unbuttoned Transgalactic uniform emblazoned with lightning insignia. Shirttail hanging out.

“Yes.” A moment’s hesitation. “From Patrol, you say?”

“From the Base. Just back from a two-year tour on the Transuran. I’m a navigator. Pirx is the name.”

A handshake.

“Mindell’s mine. Nucleonics.”